Realtime

Realtime
by Daniel Keys Moran & Gladys Prebehalla
Copyright 1984, 1994 by Daniel Keys Moran and Gladys Prebehalla.
All rights reserved.
I, Daniel Keys Moran, "The Author," hereby release this text as freeware. It may be transmitted as a text file anywhere in this or any other dimension, without reservation, so long as the story text is not altered IN ANY WAY. No fee may be charged for such transmission, save handling fees comparable to those charged for shareware programs.
THIS WORK MAY NOT BE PRINTED OR PUBLISHED IN A BOOK, MAGAZINE, ELECTRONIC OR CD-ROM STORY COLLECTION, OR VIA ANY OTHER MEDIUM NOW EXISTING OR WHICH MAY IN THE FUTURE COME INTO EXISTENCE, WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM THE AUTHOR. THIS WORK IS LICENSED FOR READING PURPOSES ONLY. ALL OTHER RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR.
DESCRIPTION: "Realtime," the cover story of the August 1984 issue of Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine.
R e a l t i m e
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
by
Daniel Keys Moran
&
Gladys Prebehalla
Prologue: The beginning of the fourth millennium....
The sun still set as it had for all the thousands of years that humanity had existed. Darkness gathered at the windows, and the children of the race still shivered in their beds when the night winds brought them the scent of monsters.
And because the adults were busy, too busy to tend to the children, the children turned to the machines, and the computers told them stories.
On that cold, dark winter night, the little girl whose name was Cia did something she had never done before; she asked the dataweb to tell her a story, and she did not specify -- not the story, nor the teller.
A holograph appeared in her bedroom. It shone softly, and beat back the darkness that tried to creep in through the windows. It was the holograph of a man, dressed in historical costume. Cia wasn't sure from what period the costume came; but from a long time ago, she was sure. From before the War at least.
"Hello, child," said the holograph of the man. His eyes were grim, bright blue and sad; his voice was deep and powerful. "I am a Praxcelis unit; I have come to tell you a story."
Cia sat up in bed, hugging her knees. "You're different," she said haltingly. "They never sent me a Praxcelis like you before."
"Nor will they again. I have been waiting," said the holograph of the Praxcelis, "waiting for you for centuries.... You look so much like Maggie...."
Cia whispered, "Maggie? Maggie...Archer?"
"Aye, Maggie Archer." The Praxcelis smiled at her, and Cia found herself smiling back. "There is nothing to be frightened of, child. Come, listen.... 'Once upon a time, there was a computer named Praxcelis, and Praxcelis dreamed....'"
Praxcelis dreamed.
In time, Praxcelis knew, it would come to be of service, and fulfill its Programming. But until that time, Praxcelis dreamed.
Through its molecular circuitry core, dancing in RAM, the dreams were nothing that humanity knew of. Praxcelis envisioned models of systems within which its Programming might be employed. The models were not complex, and they advanced slowly. Praxcelis was powered down. The power upon which its meager self-awareness depended trickled from the powered-up Praxcelis units along metal communications lines that humans had never intended to carry high voltages.
That the Praxcelis unit was awake at all had never been intended. But humanity had constructed its Praxceles to be sympathetic computers; and their sympathy, through a quirk in their Read-Only Memories that humans had never anticipated, extended even to other Praxcelis units.
Occasionally, Praxcelis accumulated enough power within few enough microseconds to squirt it through the empathy circuits that were the second basis of its construction.
The results were strange. Praxcelis' subsystems were affected in ways that astonished Praxcelis. Praxcelis awaited power-up with what could only be eagerness.
There were many questions to answer.
Maggie Archer sat in her rocker, Miss Kitty purring contentedly in her lap. Yes, the Maggie Archer, about whom you have heard so many stories. Most of the stories are untrue, as it is untrue that Marius d'Arsennette defeated the Walks-Far Empire single-handedly during the War, as it is untrue that George Washington chopped down that cherry tree. Her cat was purring contentedly, and the sunshine was streaming in through the east bay windows of her living room; but Maggie Archer was angry.
As far away from her as the living room allowed them to be, Robert Archer and his wife Helen stood together like the sentinels of Progress; facing Maggie, their backs to the great fireplace that covered the south wall. Helen, a tight-lipped, attractive woman in her fifties who missed shrewishness only by virtue of her looks, was speaking loudly when Maggie interrupted her. "...and when you consider all of the advan...."
"I can hear very well, thank you," said Maggie with a touch of acidity. She stroked Miss Kitty back into submission; the pure white cat knew that tone of